“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." Rumi
Mystery, Misery, Mastery
calm as the night—
it always seems like twilight
soft, warm, and tight.
A zipper straight down the middle,
an amniotic sac breaks open.
It was a cesarean section,
opening the belly to the sky.
Outside low thick clouds
are white wings awakening
Holding close is a life,
delivered from a water bag
Breathing air, body of blood,
cheek pressed to her swollen breast.
Life shares her first breath with the living.
Death shares each heaving breath
with the dying.
She remembers when she was just a girl,
sitting on the foyer steps,
distant church bells, her doorbell rings,
the body bag arrives;
the men walked in,
and leave with the corpse of a man.
Cold, stiff, dead, she remembers; it is the last
time her father would be leaving.
She curls her body in a sleeping bag,
zippers it closed and remembers
to stop crying.
purses, storage bags
containing the remains of one’s life.
Life considers a life, hospice, and
just down the corridor is a gurney rolling to
retrieve a person’s failed bones.
The body bag is earth’s final destination,
a zipper runs down the middle, outside,
a resting place underground.